Reflection: Why I Cut My Hair (Super) Short

photo-23Since I chopped all off my long curls in February, a week before I turned 37, so many of my female friends have asked, WHY?

So, why did you cut your hair? What made you cut your hair? Is something going on? they asked.

Even my own sister asked if I was going through a mid-life crisis.

When a woman cuts her hair super short, there must be a reason, so it seems. It’s a defining moment. One that people asked me about more than I imagined.

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Listen: I wish your eyes | 28 February 2007

Listen: I wish your eyes
were smack dab on the wall,
so I could see the blue
of them them bounce back
at me. I wanted to rip
them out of their
sockets, so I could hold
them in my hands, and
have you with me. You
left me for someone else
and I dreamt your eyes
were rolling down
the street like marbles.
You stood on the side of
the road, eye sockets without
eyes and I could not
reach you. I was the car
that passed by, the person
behind the wheel. I wanted
to honk but my hands
were cut off.

The Day I Turned 31 | 4 March 2007

31. 30 was more eventful. 31 was nothing. Worked most of the day, treated myself to a pedicure. I had one moment with a notebook today, wrote a poem about it. Just glad that today is over — want this week to be. Looking forward to spring break to catch up and relax again. All these jobs getting to me.

If you left me a message, what would it say?

The Year I Wrote Only Poems

20130729-080222.jpg2007. Much of this year, in this journal, full of poems. Entries that make no sense — sometimes not even to me. An image sparks a moment of creativity and words unfold.

Some of these poems I revised/edited and versions of them ended up in my thesis. Looking back, I wish I had spent more time with some of them (especially the entries on 3/29, 4/8, 4/12. and 4/30); I love the rawness of these poems, unedited and in-the-moment. They say so much without saying anything, my obsessions at the time, trying to write a book of cohesive poems: birds, eyes, different types of flowers.

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Who wanted to climb the tree | 16 March 2007

Who wanted to climb the tree
was the same person who rode
her bicycle on petals, fallen on
the sidewalk like a garden
without soil, without dirt.
She did need you, the front door
left open, she thought she heard
a knock. It was yesterday.
The corner store. A juke box
playing Mexican music. Men
bellied up to a bar. Three
Hispanic boys making fun of her
bike, the petals of the cherry blossom
like tiny tears, a carpetful.

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